


too much of a good thing

by klaviergavout



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: 1920s vibe, Alcohol, F/M, Flirting, Jazz - Freeform, Musicians, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaviergavout/pseuds/klaviergavout
Summary: Geraldine's Gem is where The Spine prefers to spend his Saturday nights, a place where he can masquerade as human and order fancy cocktails to his heart's content. But what happens when The Spine meets a beautiful girl who threatens to expose his true identity?
Relationships: The Spine/Malfunction
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	too much of a good thing

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this a while ago, might finish it at some point but I at least wanted to get the first part out there. Hope you enjoy!

It's Temecula's hidden gem - quite literally. That's their slogan, after all.

The walls of Geraldine's Gem are lined by deep crimson curtains, fitting of the shows they often host and the profile of the musicians that play there. On one far end of the room is a small stage packed with instrument cases and music stands; on the other, a well-stocked bar. Most of this underground room, once a thriving speakeasy, is carpeted, matching the curtains with a dark reddish hue; but in the very centre lies an oasis, a polished cedar dance floor covered end to end with scuff marks. Surrounding this are a set of rounded tables, chairs laid alongside them and a candle atop each one. Each little flame adds to the warm and inviting glow already emanating throughout the club, which is further strengthened by the golden chandeliers that hang overhead, each giving off an esteemed and sophisticated vibe. 

The strong aromas of high-end liquor and tobacco smoke are heavy in the air, and that's ultimately what leads The Spine towards the bar - not that he can actually smell, of course. The smoke clogs his boiler and makes him cough to force it out, some residual steam escaping his vents in the process - so he clamps his hands down on his cheeks and lets it gently waft through his fingers. This way, no one can see.

"David," the moustachioed bartender says, grinning and straightening his tie at the sight of a favourite regular. "It's so good to see you. The usual, I suppose?"

"Please. It's good to see you too, Sam." 

His eyes follow the bartender as he grabs a bottle of cognac and twirls it in his hands, composed and consistent as always. Powdered sugar and lemon juice are combined in a shaker, topped with the cognac and finished up with two shots of a rich champagne. Shaken with ice, poured into a flute glass and garnished with a lemon twist; the French 125 is complete. The Spine wagers that if he's going to fake being able to drink anything in the first place, he'd better go all out.

Plus, it's rather fitting that his drink of choice would be named after a gun.

He takes the glass of amber liquid that's offered to him and his new reflection stares back. Pale. Pink. Unmarked, and unnatural. He's much more used to metal and chrome, to the harsh black lines that have become characteristic.

There are parts of him that are easily modified to appear more human - his 'hair', his clothes, even the dimming of his photoreceptors so his eyes won't appear so starkly green- but caking ten bottles of foundation all over himself isn't an easy feat. It's messy, unpleasant, and doesn't always stick (he shudders to think about the time he tried to combat this by putting _glue_ into the mixture). Above all, the whole ordeal just serves to hit him where it hurts the most; if he was human in the first place, he wouldn't _have_ to go through this. Or so he thinks? After all, foundation isn't usually sold to robots pretending to be humans, but to humans who have always been humans. The Spine envies those people more than anybody, but he doesn't envy their makeup practices.

With some trepidation of what's to come, The Spine lifts the cocktail to lightly rouged lips and takes a sip. It glides down his throat and trickles through the ridges between his neck-plates, dripping from the sharp point where his head and neck taper off like a snake. It creates a small wet patch through his undershirt, no doubt one that will grow over the course of the night, and it makes him feel endlessly thankful for the waistcoat he's been wearing as of late. Drinking the rather elaborate cocktail is his weekly ritual, his Saturday gateway into a human way of life, and he would rather not embarrass himself in front of the very people he aims to mimic. 

Basic routine over with, The Spine smiles and watches as the club fills up with its usual patrons: decidedly human yuppies and busybodies who value nothing more than hitting the Gem after a long week of office work, who shuffle in almost in droves, taking off their coats and hats and heading to find good seats. Over the several weeks he's been doing this, he's noticed that the couples who regularly attend have this process nailed- every single time, one person heads to the bar while the other rushes off to claim a table. It should be a sad thing to notice, considering The Spine always sits alone, but he's more than content to watch from the (limited) comforts of a small barstool. With impeccable hearing equipment and top-of-the-range photoreceptors, distance from the stage doesn't matter to him. What does matter to him is his distance from other people, and the simple fact that he needs to keep it. 

* * *

In no time at all the band is on. They call themselves the Double Bass Brigade, made up of Boogie Jones (lead singer), Joogie Bones (tenor sax), Oogie Bjones (trumpet), BJ Ooges (piano), Boog Joogn (double bass) and Harold (drums). The Spine is constantly plagued with questions about their, well, questionable names, but they all have the same harrowing look in their eyes that tells him not to mention it. Their tired, under-shadowed eyes...

The DBB start things off with the ever-popular 'Seven Steps to Heaven', followed by their new original song 'Cat On a Cold Tin Roof' and a mean rendition of 'Take The 'A' Train'. It reminds The Spine of a song his own band wrote about a train journey years ago, in what was it, 55? 56? He struggles to remember. He can't even think back to when he last performed it. When you've been in service for over 120 years everything tends to mesh into one big timeline, into nothing but displaced, faded, broken memories. 

That being said, if a gorgeous lady were to saunter The Spine's way, of _course_ he'd struggle to remember anything.

A strapless red gown that curves flawlessly to her every proportion. Ruby lipstick and perfectly curled eyelashes make her pop with colour and life; this woman has no need for jewellry. Long, thin legs - which The Spine can appreciate, being the rather impressive height he is - taper down into sparkling scarlet heels. Baby blue eyes light up her face with an almost artificial glow, and the showstopper: a thick, beautiful mane of flowing blue hair that's so long as to reach the trim of her dress. Tanned, golden skin; or should he say foundation? Because while he was almost convinced of this woman's species, it didn't take him too long to notice the bright optical fibres woven throughout her locks, connected (most likely soldered) to her scalp. 

She eyes him up on her way to the bar and he stares her down as she approaches him, the jazz long forgotten.

"Hello, stranger," says the pretty automaton, slim hands wrapping around his neck faster than he can process. Her fingernails seem to flash with electricity as they press down on the back of his neck, and it takes every ounce of nerve he's got to maintain a stolid composure. She gasps in mock surprise when sparks meet steel. "Ooh, what have we got here?"

The Spine has to steady himself before he speaks again - he's never been flirted with _and_ exposed in the span of a few seconds, but two can certainly play at that game. He settles for a knowing smirk of his own, trailing his hands down the side of her undeniably smooth chassis (chuckling at the gasp he gets in return) and leading them to gently rest on her waist. "I could ask you the same question."

"Seems like you already know the answer," she says, still staring up at him - meanwhile, The Spine is busy swimming in the blue portals that make up her eyes. He's almost sure they've been dimmed to appear more human-like. He wishes he could see them in all their vivid brightness, wishes she could see his emerald green. 

"Yeah," he breathes out, trying to stay composed, stay _cool._ He's The Spine - he's charming, debonair, daring and dashing and just when you need him he's there, or so the song goes. But it's getting increasingly harder to keep calm when underneath his fingers he can feel the low, constant buzz of circuitry, and it excites him to no end. He feels like he could travel all the way to Kazooland and back powered just by the watts dancing around his fingertips. 

"What's your name?" she finally asks, straight to the point. "Your real one."

"Dav-- The Spine." He falters, so used to his alias that he almost forgets himself. "Yours?"

"Malfunction," says the robot, smiling and breaking her gaze. "I don't mind if you call me Mal, though. I know it's easier."

"No, no, it's okay." He's quick to reassure her about this; years of people missing out the 'The' in his full name have taken their toll. "You have a beautiful name." 

She looks back up at him, genuinely surprised, blue eyes brightening all on their own. "Really?"

"Absolutely." He points behind him with his thumb, right around where his spines would usually be (of course, he's retracted them). "At least you weren't named after your back."

Malfunction giggles sweetly, a slight tinny note to her laughter and it sets him off too. It feels good to let go in a place like this, but The Spine can't help the growing sense of nervousness that's echoing deep down in the bowels of his boiler. Things are getting more serious and he knows he'll just embarrass Malfunction if he starts acting too much like himself, starts acting like a dork in front of someone who's still essentially a stranger - metal or not. So The Spine lets go of her waist at last, busying his hands by flagging down Sam the friendly bartender again. He re-orders his normal French 125, plus a more traditional French 75 for Mal; he usually buys them for human girls to some success, so he reckons it should help him now.

Malfunction takes a seat and leans in close to his ear, smirking at The Spine as he watches Sam prepare their drinks. "Does he know we can't taste those? Or anything else?"

"No," The Spine replies, unable to take his eyes off the bar; he's thoroughly impressed by the sheer amount of expensive lavender gin that Sam has just poured into a shaker. "But I tend to compliment him regardless."

**Author's Note:**

> Update: after reading this my friend messaged me saying “I’m not a robot fucker, but Malfunction? She can get it” and I think that’s a beautiful description


End file.
